The Restless Morning

The morning unfolded in eerie silence within the grand halls of The Duke's manor. Unlike the bustling palaces of Cardania, his estate was shrouded in perpetual twilight—thick velvet drapes blocked out the rising sun, casting long, fractured shadows against the dark-stone walls.

Berith awoke with pain searing through his body. His breath came in slow, ragged inhales, each one followed by a dull, throbbing ache that pulsed beneath his skin.

His muscles burned, his veins felt like they were aflame, and as he forced himself upright, a sharp sting ran across his back. Scars—old and new—stretched taut against his skin, responding violently to the way he had spent the night suppressing what lurked inside him.

He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his damp hair. The sheets beneath him were twisted, stained faintly with blood where reopened wounds had bled during his restless sleep.

His body was rejecting restraint again.

His vision blurred for a moment. He gritted his teeth, forcing it down, suppressing it. The more he fought against it, the more the pain escalated.

It was always like this. A struggle. A war inside him.

And today, it was worse.

A knock erupted through the heavy ornate doors.

"Your Grace?" The familiar voice of his family butler, Silas, carried through the chamber. The old man never entered without permission, but there was an edge of worry in his tone.

Berith closed his eyes briefly before responding, voice rough from pain. "Come in."

The door opened, and Silas stepped inside, carrying a small tray in his gloved hands. His sharp eyes, trained by years of loyal service, immediately took in the state of the room—and the Duke.

There was no gasp of shock, no display of horror at the sight of his lord sitting half-dressed on the edge of the bed, body marred with darkened scars. Silas had seen it all before.

The butler's only response was to step forward with efficiency, setting the tray down on a nearby table. The faint scent of medicinal herbs filled the air.

"It's worse today," Silas noted.

Berith let out a short, humorless breath. "An astute observation."

Silas didn't entertain the sarcasm. "You suppressed it again, didn't you?"

Berith didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Silas sighed, shaking his head slightly. "You know what happens when you fight it too much, Your Grace. Your body is already at its limit."

"Spare me the lecture," Berith muttered. His fingers dug into his temple, trying to chase away the headache pounding at his skull. "Just give me the damn potion."

Without another word, Silas took the small glass vial from the tray and handed it to him. The liquid inside shimmered a faint silver-blue, pulsing with a soft glow.

Berith took it in one hand, rolling it between his fingers before uncorking it. The scent alone made his stomach turn—it was sharp, acrid, and far too familiar.

"You keep giving me this diluted version," he remarked dryly.

"Because the stronger one would put you in a three-day coma," Silas countered without hesitation.

Berith snorted before tipping the vial back, downing the contents in one go. The potion burned on the way down, leaving a bitter aftertaste. It took only seconds for its effects to take hold—the pain didn't vanish completely, but the searing intensity dulled, settling into something bearable.

His body slumped losing its stiff posture. He closed his eyes, drawing in a lung full of air. 

Silas observed him carefully. "You need to stop fighting what you are," he added. "No number of potions will change it."

Berith looked up at him, quirking his brows. "And what do you suggest?"

"A smarter man would learn to bend before he breaks," the butler said, cleaning up the empty vial and stained linens. "You, however, seem intent on shattering yourself first."

As a respond, Berith thew a dark chuckle. 

"One more thing, Your Grace," Silas added as he finished arranging the tray.

Berith cocked his head, sensing the shift in tone. "What is it?"

"Lady Marcella has arrived at the manor."

The exhaustion, the pain, the bitter aftertaste of the potion—all of it was momentarily drowned out by surprise.

"Marcella," he drawled, tasting her name on his lips.

"Yes," Silas confirmed. "She's waiting for you in the west drawing room."

Marcella wasn't the type to make unannounced visits without a reason. And right now, of all times? This was unexpected.

His mind turned over possibilities. Did she suspect something? Had she heard something?

"She didn't say why she's here?"

"No," Silas replied. "Only that she needed to speak with you immediately."

That wasn't good.

Berith dragged a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. "She picked the worst possible time."

Silas didn't comment. He merely placed a fresh shirt and coat beside the duke's bed before stepping back.

Instead of recoiling, he laughed. "You're really going to make me deal with her, aren't you?"

Silas offered a polite bow. "She's waiting, Your Grace."

Berith pushed himself up, wincing as the aches flared. He took a slow breath, then reached for the shirt.

~~~~~

He stood in the doorway, his sharp eyes landing on Marcella who sat uninvited, utterly composed, and waiting. She was adorned in an elegant dark ensemble, feminine yet imposing, as if she had woven the night itself into fabric.

Marcella was an unsettling sight this early in the morning—even before he had attended court, offered his perfunctory morning prayers, or completed his chores.

She always did have terrible timing.

His gaze flickered to the faint steam rising from the untouched tea beside her. She had been waiting.

Berith cleared his throat.

Marcella turned at the sound, her purple eyes locked onto him with an intensity that was almost unnerving.

Then, she rose. And without so much as a greeting, she asked, "Why did you buy that painting?"

Straight to the point.

Berith stopped mid-step. He studied her for a moment, as if weighing how he wanted to play this.

Then, a slow, knowing smirk tugged at his lips. "Good morning to you too, Lady Marcella. You do know most people wait for an invitation before barging into a man's home?"

Her gaze didn't waver. "Answer the question."

Berith exhaled, stepping further into the room. He moved toward the nearby cabinets stocked with rare vintages, though he didn't pour himself a drink. Instead, he dragged his fingers along the glassware with idle distraction before speaking.

"I buy many things," he mused, his tone smooth, conversational. "You'll have to be more specific."

Marcella's nails tapped against the desk. "Don't play with me, Your Grace. I am talking about the painting from the exhibition."

Ah. So, she had done her research.